A Bitter Feast(96)

Looking more startled than frightened, Viv said, “You can’t think—surely you don’t think I gave it to him.”

“It seems to me that you had very good reason to want Mr. O’Reilly out of the way, Ms. Holland. It’s highly unlikely that any court would have granted him complete custody, but a suit on his part would certainly have disrupted your and your daughter’s lives—and caused your daughter untold emotional distress.”

“But”—Viv threw Gemma a helpless look—“but I would never— I wouldn’t even have any idea how to go about something like that!”

“Nevertheless, Ms. Holland, I’ll need to ask you some ques—”

Booth broke off as tires squealed on the car park tarmac, then a vehicle flashed by, visible for only an instant through the courtyard archway. A car door slammed, and Ibby came charging through the arch. Without the cheerful bandanna tied over his hair, he looked older, and far more menacing. Kincaid tensed, but Ibby came to a stop a few feet from them, his hands on his hips.

“Who the hell has been messing with my truck?” he said, glaring at them.

“What are you talking about?” Booth asked. “What truck?”

“My four-by-four. I was going to run into town to buy some”—Ibby broke off, shooting a guilty glance at Viv— “I mean I had an errand to do. But my seat and my mirrors are off. I hate anyone—”

“You never said you had a four-by-four,” broke in Booth.

“You never asked. I said I didn’t drink-drive, not that I didn’t drive.”

That much was true, Kincaid remembered. And he knew Booth had checked Ibby’s and Angelica’s alibis for Saturday night—they were both confirmed to have been at a pub lock-in from eleven o’clock until two in Moreton-on-Marsh. “When did you last drive?” he asked.

“I don’t know. Last week. I rode with Angie on the Saturday and yesterday morning—as you bloody well know. And I hadn’t needed to go anywhere until just now.”

With a scowl, Booth strode across the courtyard and through the arch, the rest of them following. A battered and muddy red Toyota RAV4 stood alone and slightly askew in the car park. “This is it?”

“I didn’t come in a bloody pumpkin.”

Booth walked round it and, squatting, examined the front fender. The others followed and peered over his shoulder. “It’s about the right height. And it’s pretty dinged up, but I can’t tell if the damage is old or new.”

“What do you mean, dinged up?” Sounding even more incensed, Ibby pushed through the group to stand beside him.

“Look, here, just left of center. There’s a crack in the grill.”

“That wasn’t there. I’m sure that wasn’t there. What the hell is going—”

Booth stood. “Who else has access to your car?”

“What?” Ibby stared at him. “Well, Bea, of course, but I thought—”

“What do you mean, of course?”

Ibby seemed just as baffled. “Because I lodge in her house. Just at the top of the village. You took our details. You must know—”

“Wait. Just wait a minute.” Viv slipped past Ibby to stand in front of Booth. “Are you saying that it might have been Ibby’s car that hit Jack? Is that what you’re talking about? Ibby wasn’t even here when Jack was run down!”

“We know that, Miss Holland.” Booth sounded as if his patience was strained. “But Mr. Azoulay here seems to think that someone else has driven his car. And his car fits the profile of the vehicle involved in Jack Doyle’s death.”

“But that’s ridiculous. That means Bea— You can’t think Bea had anything to do with— Someone must have stolen Ibby’s keys—”

“They were right where I normally keep them,” protested Ibby. “But someone drove my car. I’m not imagining it. Everything is just a bit off-kilter. Not to mention, the seat lever is jammed, and when I went to take a look at it, my bloody torch was missing.”

Kincaid heard a quick indrawn breath from Gemma. The blow to Jack Doyle’s head was knowledge the detectives had kept to themselves. A torch would have made a handy and effective blunt instrument.

“You kept it in your car?” asked Booth.

“Well, yeah, in the glove compartment. Where else would I keep it? Look, this is bonkers. Bea’s never driven my car—why would she do that?”

“Because,” Kincaid said slowly, thinking it through, “if you had the idea to run someone down, it would be wise not to do it in your own vehicle. Especially in a smaller car that might be less effective and sustain more damage. And just say it was a last-minute decision, and there was another vehicle, readily available, but not likely to be associated with you.”

They all stared at him. “But why?” whispered Viv. “I don’t believe it. Why would Bea do such a thing?”

“Because Jack Doyle knew something about what happened to Fergus O’Reilly—something that would have proved dangerous for him to share,” Gemma said with sudden certainty. “Jack was not himself that night—you told me that, Viv. He was upset. He was drinking, which was unusual. You thought it was because he was grieving for Nell. But what if it was more than that? What if he’d seen something, something that only had significance when he learned that Fergus might have been poisoned? Who besides Jack would have served Fergus in the bar that night?”